Both have Fallen from Grace
by wakingonprospit
Summary: After a failed suicide attempt, ex-hunter Dean Winchester wakes up with a hand shaped burn on his left arm. Later that night, he finds a a strange man with wings, claiming to be an angel, in his car junkyard. The man is badly injured and Dean. against better judgement, takes him in to nurse him back to health.
1. This Isn't What I Wanted

Dean couldn't quite remember the events that led up to him walking to that highway bridge. Perhaps a few too many beers at The Roadhouse, whose previous owners had long since passed on, assisted in the past half hour of stumbling through a blurred town. Maybe his mind, cloudy with images that he would rather forget, is what drove him toward the side of the bridge.

He doesn't recognize his actions until he feels the cold metal of the handrail against his hand, causing him to stop all movement.

He blinks down at the bar that blocks him from a drop that could surely take his life, considering all options before he planned to move again.

Thoughts continued to run through his head. Bobby would be pissed. He can't even imagine what his dad would say. Though it isn't as if any of that matters anymore. They're both gone now. The only one left is Sam.

But would his little brother even notice his absence? After this mess that dragged him back into demon hunting, Sam hasn't been the same. When Azazel killed their father, Bobby, Ellen, and Jo; the two Winchester brothers worked to hunt him down and kill him with the colt, a gun specifically made to kill demons. Afterwards, Dean had expected his brother to stay in the family business, but instead Sam decided to go back to Stanford.

Sam has only visited Dean once since then, at last year's Christmas, but besides the occasional phone call, the older sibling doesn't hear from his brother much at all.

Dean now stands on the thin strip of concrete on the outer side of the bridge, feet shoulder width apart, and calves pressed against the railing. His arms are out to his sides and twisted backwards at an awkward position so he can hold onto the rails.

For a moment he considers if anyone besides Sam would attend his funeral. He didn't necessarily have friends, or anyone else that he was very close to, but surely there would be someone else there?

The ex-hunter pushes those thoughts from his head, looking down at the city road far below him. It's smooth, cold, monochrome streets seem so surreal from this high up. The street lights shine down onto the road and reflect light as if the streets were a black river. The stretch of dark concrete goes on forever, trailing off into the distance and becoming less recognizable as it goes.

The fall has to be at least fifty feet straight down. Maybe more. A jump like this should kill him instantly, though its less than he deserves. He deserves the pain, every last bit that he had brought upon his friends and loved ones, to be brought back tenfold onto himself. He deserves to pay for the deaths of each comrade that he lost. It was all his fault anyway. He needed to make it right. He was the one who should have died. Or so he believed.

A quiet, shaky breath escapes his lips as he tilts his head back a bit, letting his eyes slide shut. The cool wind rushes smoothly across his face and causes his hair to dance, tickling the back of his neck. The sound of the evening air mixed with an occasional car going by plays hollowly into Dean's ears. For once, in a long time, he is at peace, ready to accept his end with open arms. He's ready to rest at last.

He takes one last breath of chilly night before letting go of the handrails and plummeting off of the side of the bridge.

Dean falls through the air, watching the concrete below rapidly approach. He feels his eyes water up and sting from the pressure of air rushing against his face.

It isn't quite like he imagined. Its not slow or dramatized, like you'd read about in a book. Instead he is greeted by not even two seconds of falling, and before he knew it he had reached the bottom.

The pain is unbearable.

A grotesque cracking noise can be heard as he hits the ground. Why wasn't he dead? A scream rips through his throat at the pain that ripples through his limbs and sides. Throughout his years as a hunter he had acquired far too many injuries, fractured ribs, broken bones, bruises and cuts. Nothing could compare to what he's feeling now. There's no way of telling what part of him hurts the most. Its as if every bone in his body has been crushed by the fall.

The pain slowly starts to feel more numb as he becomes light headed. It's still agonizing, but now it seems to be further away.

He feels as if the earth is gone from beneath him. He has no sense of the state that he's in. All that run's through his foggy mind is _"This isn't what I wanted."_

He tries to move but his body won't obey him. It's as if he is being pushed from all sides in an attempt to hold him still.

In one last effort, he manages to open his eyes a bit. The first thing he notices is the shiny bright red liquid that pools around him onto of the dark concrete. He has to give all of his effort into making his eyes focus more.

When they do, he sees the shape of his right arm. The site is almost enough to make him throw up, and surely if he was able to move then he would. It's bent at an unnatural angle, elbow completely out of place. A blood covered bone has ripped through the muscle and skin of his forearm and is protruding outwards.

_"This isn't what I wanted."_

The pain fades as his senses are numbed and his vision becomes cloudy. He's losing too much blood to survive. Soon. He will be able to sleep. He lets his eyes drift shut and holds still, and even with his eyes closed, his vision goes white.

Then he feels a burning on his upper left arm. It starts off dull and warm but slowly starts to burn. It gets hotter and hotter until Dean is sure that his arm is on fire. His eyes squeeze shut tighter, still blinding by a white nothingness. His other injuries aren't even recognizable through the pain in his arm. The burning continues for a bit longer, spreading through him like a wild fire until he slowly loses consciousness.


	2. A Horribly Vivid Dream

The ceiling of his bedroom is the same as it has always been. The bends in the ceiling are all in the same places, making the entirety of the house seem less stable. There is still a light stain in the right corner that is furthest away from the bed, caused by the pipes that run through the house leaking and seeping through the ceiling. The ceiling fan whirls on a medium setting, making a slight rattling noise as it goes, spinning around and around in an attempt to cool down the room. Which is greatly assisted by the open window on his left that allows for cool air to enter, rustling through the plain white curtains and into his bedroom.

Everything is as it should be.

Except for Dean.

Dean shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in the familiar comfort of his large bed, staring up at the ceiling as if nothing had happened. He should be dead, laying bloody and mangled on the asphalt of the highway that he remembered so clearly.

Yet here he is. In his room, in his house that Bobby left to him in his will. He cant help but consider if the previous happenings were all in his head, perhaps a dream, his imagination going wild, or even the very real possibility that Dean has just gone insane.

He doesn't dare move, staring upwards and glancing around with his eyes. Maybe, if he doesn't move, then all of this will go away. Just maybe, he can sink into himself, no longer having to deal with the world around him or the pain that walks hand in hand with everyday life.

Time passes, although Dean isn't sure how long it is before he finally moves. His body feels heavy and weighed down, yet he fights to will himself up. He sits up groggily, remembering every second of his dream in excruciating detail, the desperate ness, the hopelessness, and the pain. They all mix together in a crystal clear montage.

A dream.

That is all it was. Just a horribly vivid dream, unlike anything that he had ever experienced before. So real that he honestly thought he was dying. He honestly thought that it was over. But no, it was just a dream. Dean keeps trying to convince himself of this fact as he stands up out of his bed.

Then out of no where it hits him. The pain rushes into his left arm. It's all too much like a feeling that he remembers, though a little bit duller, it still burns as if someone had lit his arm on fire.

The ex-hunter turns to get out of his bed, legs shaking a bit as he stands. He rest's a hand on his arm, where the burning occurs before pulling it away quickly, hissing in pain. He makes his way out of the room hurriedly, stumbling down the familiar hall and into the bathroom. Dean unceremoniously flicks on the light and starts to tug his shirt off, wincing as the cotton fabric drags across his shoulder.

There he stands, studying himself in the mirror, unable to deny how awful he looks at the moment. Dean's eyes have developed dark circles beneath them from lack of sleep. His skin is paler than it use to be undoubtedly from hardly leaving his home, making him look strangely sick. His hair is a mess, as it usually is nowadays.

He observes his features only for a brief moment before the sting in his arm sets him back on task. With the reminder, he turns to the side, directing his attention to the bright red, hand shaped mark upon his upper arm. His eyes widen slightly as he rests his hand on the mark. It stings badly, confirming that it is in fact real. Yet he keeps his hand in place for a moment, the burn of it somehow helping to ground him and keep him calm.

Before Dean can wrap his mind around what might have caused the burn during his sleep, his lights start to flicker.

Dean's gaze trails upwards from the dirty porcelain of the sink to the florescent light above the bathroom mirror. A frown takes his face, his eyes squinting and blinking at the light. The house shakes. It is almost un noticeable at first, but then gets more evident as a shrill, high-pitched screech starts to ring throughout the house. It gets louder and louder until Dean is covering his ears and shutting his eyes tight, trying to block out the awful noise. Through the palms of his hands he can hear the lightbulbs and mirror above him shatter, and feel the sting in his back as the glass falls upon it.

Only a few seconds go by before the noise seems to have disappeared, but when Dean removes his hands, he can hear a man screaming. It's far away, yet close at the same time. Then there is a muffled crash from somewhere behind him.

Then he realizes, it came from outside. The ex-hunter pulls his shirt on hurriedly, not thinking about the burn on his arm until the fabric of his shirt has dragged across it. He quickly pushes his pain aside and walks out of the bathroom and down the hall, toward the back door of his house. It takes less than a minute for him to slide on a pair of worn out tennis shoes and grab a flashlight and shot-gun.

Then he heads outside into the cold night air.

* * *

**_Please review and let me know if you want me to write more. Your opinion is very very appreciated! _**

**_Also! big thanks to my editor Alexus... Who is awesome... she is my goddess. _**


	3. He Couldn't Let That Happen

Was it really so wrong to save him?

Castiel had spent almost the past thirty years guarding Dean. He had watched the Winchester grow from a child into adulthood. He spent every second protecting him as best as he could, doing everything in his power to keep the young hunter safe.

So many strings needed to be pulled. There were many instances in which the hunter was meant to die, but Castiel always found a way to avoid it. It wasn't easy work by any means. It never is for guardian angels who are assigned hunters. Most angels simply get tired of it and give up. They let their charges die, then move on to be assigned to some boringly average human that they don't have to pay as much attention to.

Though somehow Castiel had managed, taking his job as serious as ever. But for what? For Dean to throw it all away with a single step?

He couldn't let that happen. He was supposed to. But he couldn't.

And now he pays for it in full.

Castiel plummets through the air at uncontrollable speeds, turning and flipping with no control of his own body. Wind rushes against him, pushing at his skin and hair, trying to push and pull him in every direction at once. His throat is sore from screaming, it burns painfully as the high-pitched screech tears through his throat, slowly becoming lower and more human-like.

In a last, impulsive, and desperate effort to save himself, he spreads his wings, expecting for them to catch the air and help him glide safely to the ground. Immediately, he regrets his actions. The force pushing against him as he falls is too great. His left wing catches the wind before it can fully extend, causing the air to rip it backwards, sending a searing jolt through his body.

The feeling of pain is new to Castiel. It's much worse than he would have imagined. It's electrifying, and hot like fire beneath his skin. There's nothing like it; no way for him to associate it with anything he has felt before. It's killing him, he thinks, its burning him up and it just won't stop. For some reason, he was expecting for pain to be a momentary feeling, then for it to fade. But no, it just increases, getting hotter and hotter. It crosses his mind that maybe the feeling will last forever, tearing him apart until there is nothing left.

Just when he doesn't think it could get any worst, he reaches the ground, letting out a blood curdling scream of agony as his vision goes black.

* * *

Castiel is comforted by a soothing, pitch black, nothingness for only a few minutes. It's enough time to give him a break from the pain but not enough to dull it at all. So when the far off sound of someone yelling awakes him, the pain returns, hitting him suddenly at full force. Though this time it's much worst, rippling throughout his left wing and into his shoulder, dominating his senses.

Castiel lets out a helpless whine as he moves up onto his forearms and knees weakly. For someone who just fell from the sky, perhaps he should consider himself lucky. He can move his arms and legs, though not without some difficulty, and most of his pain is sourced at the large, black, feathered wing that extends out of his left shoulder blade. The rest of his body is covered with a sore ache, though it is masked significantly behind the pain of his wing. If he had been an average person, he would have surely burned up during the fall. He can only assume that the remainder of his grace kept his body intact from the moment he exited heaven, to the second he hit the ground. But now that he has landed, he can feel the last of his grace leaving him slowly.

He works his hands beneath himself to push the majority of his weight onto his knees. The foreign, cold, metal surface below him has been bent and dented from the force of the fall. He tries to fold his wings inward, but the motion jerks him to the left quickly, onto his side, and sends pain shooting through his entire body. A scream works its way out his mouth to be followed by a pathetic sob.

Castiel's new body is beginning to shake from a mixture of the cold night air, and the fear of what is going to happen to him. He doesn't know how badly he is injured, or if it's even something that can be fixed. All he can do is fight to stay conscious, take deep breaths, and figure out what his next move needs to be.

The angel forces his eyes open once again, fighting to get them to focus, and for the first time, looks at the world around him. The night is dark, and there is just barely enough light to make out his location. He is surrounded by junk. Broken machines, trashed cars, construction material, and scrap metal, litter the area. Some of it is set to the sides, pushed into small groups of various metals and machinery, and some is just stacked up into unorganized piles of various sizes. There are old wooden light posts every so often, though all of the light bulbs in them seem to have been blown out recently, leaving the junkyard in the dark, only to be illuminated by the dull moonlight.

Castiel knows this place. He's seen it before, though not from the ground like this. This is Singer's Salvage Yard. It is located on the property that Dean inherited from Bobby when the old hunter died. His eyes dart across the area quickly, looking around the junk yard for a moment longer. Why did he land here, of all places?

When he looks to his left, he can make out the outlined shape of his dark wing. It's clearly bent unnaturally in the middle, with a long, vertical, and sharp piece of what seems to be scrap metal, impaling it. He stares up at his injury in horror, trying to keep his pain to a minimum by holding still.

That is, until he hears a gruff voice from somewhere not too far off in the distance call out, "Who's there?!"

Castiel's eyes widen a bit and he tries to stand, whining when he doesn't get anywhere, only managing to drag his wing further up the rusty metal. His eyes brim with tears of pain as he continues fighting to pull his injured wing from where it is stuck. His other wing flaps quickly, trying to give himself some form of leverage to get up, but only succeeds in knocking him onto his stomach again which drags his hurt wing back down the metal spike, sending more and more pain through him. The helpless angel keeps struggling, glancing up at his wing often in a panic as he flails and keeps pulling away from where his injured wing is trapped, tearing and ripping it even more than before.

Suddenly, a beam of light moves across the yard, illuminating individual junk piles in turn, before settling on Castiel, allowing him to see his wing more clearly. It's torn up significantly from the angel's fight to free it. The metal that protrudes through his wing is likely more than eight feet high. It's jagged and pointed in a way that resembles a lightning bolt at the top, and its drenched in dark, shiny red blood. His black feathers reflect the light, tinted and damp with that same deep red. His feathers are mused in different directions from the fall, giving him a chaotic appearance.

The click of a shotgun is what draws Castiel's attention over to the space in front of him. His eyes squint shut quickly and dance with black patches behind his eyelids as he is practically blinded by the flashlight that shines in his face.

"Don't move!"

The angel obeys the familiar and angry voice, holding as still as the rest of the world around him.

The man standing in front of him is someone that Castiel never thought he would actually meet. Not for a long time anyway, and surely not on earth. Though the light only allows for him to see the outline of the man's body, Castiel knows who this is. He's tan and freckled, with sandy blond hair and piercing green eyes. Castiel has become so familiarized with this man. He knows everything about him, and gave up everything to save him.

And now, the man that Castiel fought for so long to keep safe has a shot gun pointed right at the wounded angel, finger on the trigger.

"D-Dean?"


	4. Feathers

Dean hurries out of his house, shivering slightly at the cold air that hits him and leaves him with chill bumps. When he turns his back to the door, the first thing he notices is how dark the junkyard is. On most occasions, the high wooden lamplights would caste a dull, yellowish glow across the sea of rusted junk metal and old cars. The lights must have been shattered by the same noise that had broken his house lights and his bathroom mirror. He's now grateful for the flashlight that he grabbed at the last moment as he was exiting.

He keeps his head up to stay alert for danger. His shotgun is moved into the crook of his right arm as he holds the flashlight in both hands, twisting the top of it until the light turns on with a quiet click. Then he directs the light in front of himself, using it to guide his way down the rickety porch steps and out into the junkyard. He keeps his sawed off shot gun loaded and ready in his other hand, just in case.

His worn out tennis shoes are nearly silent against the dirt ground beneath his feet. He makes his way through the area, peering down each turn in the dirt path as he goes. He listens carefully for any sound of movement that could lead to source of the noise that he heard earlier. This comes in the form of far off rustling, followed by a pain filled whine. Dean instinctively grips the shotgun tighter, making his way in the direction of the noise.

He slowly approaches a pathway that branches off to the right of the main route, fingers tightening on his gun. He turns the corner quickly, shining the light down the path and stopping in his tracks.

The beam of the flash light traces across the heaps of junk metal, landing on an abnormal figure about twenty feet away. It takes his mind a moment to process what it is that he is seeing. The first thing dean notices is an adult man curled over himself on top of one of the junk cars. He's flailing around as if in pain, and does not seem to notice Dean's presence despite the light that shines in his direction. There is something dark and large that jolts and moves inhumanly around the stranger's form. The hunter walks a bit closer to get a better look; that's when he sees them. Feathers. They are wings.

His eyes widen as he fumbles slightly with his gun, aiming it at the creature in front of him. He cocks the shotgun, causing the monster's head to snap over and look toward him. The monster squints his eyes in the light, confusion evident on his face.

Anticipating an attack from him at any moment, Dean keeps his index finger ready on the trigger of the gun, and the barrel pointed the creature's heart.

"Don't move!" The hunter's voice comes out rough and loud, echoing throughout the yard. This causes the half-man's eyes to widen as he stops all movement. He looks like a deer in headlights, frozen in his spot, shoulders hunched over and looking rather distressed all of a sudden.

Dean holds tight to the gun, the burn in his arm keeping him alert. He steps forward slowly, being careful to keep the gun leveled with the monster. He is racking his brain for any information that he might have absorbed at some point in his hunting career to prepare him for this. Throughout all of the books he has read on demons and monsters, he's never seen something like this creature. Most monsters are killed by special means, like a stake to the heart, silver, or sometimes beheading.

Dean seriously doubted that shooting this beast would kill it, or even harm it for that matter. However, there is no reason as to why he shouldn't give it a try.

The hunter is just about to pull the trigger when something quiet catches his attention. "D-Dean?" At first he thought he had imagined it, because of the low volume and incredibly weak human voice that comes from the bird man before him.

Dean's green eyes widen and his index finger lightens off of the trigger. "What?" he speaks in a barely audible whisper, utterly shocked and dismayed by that one familiar word.

The half man shakes and stares at Dean, desperation in his glassy blue eyes. His body and wings are shaking, making him seem weak and terrified. He speaks again quietly, in his low and gravelly voice, "Dean... Dean please... Don't-..." His voice goes silent as he trails off. All of a sudden, his eyes go out of focus and slide shut as his arms and knees give out causing him to collapse onto his side.

As he does so, only one of the large black wings fall with him. The other seems to be suspended in place. The hunter has to take a few steps closer in order to see why. Somehow, the creature had skewered its wing through a piece of long and jagged scrap metal. From the looks of it, he had been trying to free it, but to no avail. The wing is stuck in such a way that the creature would not be able to raise it high enough to remove the metal. When the light from the flashlight lands on the wing, a red liquid can be seen shining off of it. It's sickly and ripped to where Dean can see the torn flesh beneath the clumped and damp feathers.

The hunter redirects his attention back to the face of the barely conscious winged-man that lies helplessly before him. Could Dean really kill him in such a weak state; and with so many unknown variables? What is this thing? Where did it come from? And most importantly, how does it know his name?

The hunter could attempt to kill this being now, while he is weak, and be done with this entirely; or he could wait and figure out everything the creature knows before offing him.

As the monster's eyes slide shut, likely with another jolt of pain, the opportunity is perfect. Dean is left with a decision to make.


End file.
